On Wednesday, my Spanish host mother, Rita, and I went adventuring to Puerta del Sol around lunchtime.  We left our house searching for “lo major bacalao en Madrid.” The traditional preparation of bacalao is essentially the fish portion of “fish and chips.” The bacalao seco, commonly known as salt cod, is left to soften in water to get rid of much of its salt. Eventually after about a day of bath time, it is breaded and deep fried with much cariño. The result is a truly silky and delicious fish: at once flaky and stake-y.

The unassuming place we entered has no menu, and as we sat down at the small table in the window, both of us on one side to watch the old men mingle at the bar, the waiter said:

“Que les apetece tomar?  El bacalao, las albondigas, los callos…” the waiter asked us.
“Nos pones el bacalao y los callos” said Rita with out thinking and looking at me she said, “Tengo sed, quieres una clara? ”
“Si claro!” I responded to the drink, beer with lemon soda, totally delicious and refreshing.

Os explico, let me explain.  Rita asked for a portion bacalao, which was indeed wonderful, and a portion of callos, better known as cow stomach. On my journey to try new and strange foods, Callos a la madrilena was clearly on my list and thankfully it is now checked off. Callos can be found all over the Iberian Peninsula (Spain and Portugal) but arguable the best callos (if you’re a fan) can be found in the Spanish Capital city.  In the 19th century, this particular presentation was deemed a Madrileño plate when Lhardy, a very upscale restaurant put them on their menu beside pristine cuts of prime rib and fois gras to represent the true country-style Spanish cuisine.

The key to this dish, according to my Spanish mom, is to wash the stomach really, really well with vinegar and water until the liquid runs clear. Then, in a big pot, sauté garlic, onion, bay leaf, and the callos cooking until very tender and the stomachs have released there water.  Reserve the liquid, called caldo.  Rita would put all this in an express or pressure cooker to make it go faster.  In another pan, meanwhile, sauté diced onion, jamón Serrano, chorizo, morcilla (check back for more information soon) with hot paprika and of course, olive oil.  When all this is good and soft, add the reserved caldo and simmer for 20 minutes.

At this point, unite the dish: red, meaty sauce tops eerily bone colored callos and there you have it: at least four different types of mean and a truly textural journey.

In my research for this entry I came across a Madrid state website that said: Como colofón, una buena sobremesa y una mejor siesta.  For a final touch, have a good after meal talk, or better yet, a nice nap.

In Spain, April showers bring May flowers just like in the US, but April also brings Easter and the week long vacation called Semana Santa that directly precedes egg painting time.  In cities all throughout the country, the Cofradías, Fraternal Brotherhoods of the Church, process along twisting cobblestone roads, adored in white and gold and bearing statues of Christ and the saints on their backs.

I, on the other hand, watched the festivities on a small television hidden away in the beach town of Peñíscola, about 250 kilometers south of Barcelona.  This April’s Semana Santa did in fact bring a lot of rain, and while I tried to get a little tan (after a short polar plunge in the Mediterranean) my favorite part of the vacation ended up being my lesson in Torrijas, the traditional dessert of holy week.

Torrijas are essentially a fried version of French toast or portable bread pudding- bread, milk, sugar, eggs and spices (honey, muscatel wine and cinnamon are all added to the eaters liking).  Standing in the tiny, very humid kitchen with my Spanish host mother, I began my apprenticeship. Everyone’s recipe is a little different, but in this case, first we mixed milk, sugar, cinnamon, and muscatel wine in a bowl and submerged slices of bakery bread two at a time.  Meanwhile, I beat four eggs in a separate bowl and heated frying oil in a pan. After we had a stack of 12 or so bread slices, we dredged them in the eggs and fried them up.  Delicious? Obviously.  Heart attack?…probable.  This is not what my doctor had in mind when she said watch your cholesterol.

Torrijas, are ubiquitous during Semana Santa.  Bakeries, restaurants and even convenience stores hang sign in their windows—“Hay Torrijas”— to attract the sweet-toothed Spanish population. The classic postre originated in Spanish monasteries in the 15th century as a way to make good and cheap use of leftovers. This year, El Mundo, a Madrileño newspaper, estimated that 3 million torrijas were sold, or said another way, 375,000 kilos (787,100 pounds)!

For me, this pastry came at the perfect time, feeling a little homesick, nothing says comfort like a few warm torrijas and a spanish soap opera.

Here is Mark Bittman’s take on the Spanish treat, and because I trust him implicitly, give this one a whirl.  Plus, the recipe is in English.

I would like some bread and olive oil please, but I’ll take it in the form of ice cream.  I went to a old fashioned ice cream parlor the other day, but I went specifically for the very modern take of flavorings.  This sweet spot is called Bruin.  It sits right next to Parque del Oeste, a great place to take a walk in the light of the setting sun as you lick your cone.

I really want to try their cheese flavored ice cream (traditional Spanish idiazabal) but, seeing as it’s February and not ice cream season the selection was more limited. I had to settle for olive oil and blueberry. I am certainly going to return for the Sorbet de Cerveza.  Beer sorbet? I think yes.

The olive oil was very smooth as I expected, flavorful but not overwhelming.  It  went perfectly with the blueberry—the icy acid of one cut the richness of the other. Oh, and the cone was perfect.

I brought my friend Scottie along, he enjoyed the treat as well. But he’s holding out for tomato and tamarind.